But When That Day Is Coming, Who Can Say
by okaynextcrisis
Summary: Missing scene between Sometimes A Great Notion and A Disquiet Follows My Soul. Bill goes back to see Laura.


_Title taken from "Up the Wolves" by the Mountain Goats, which I don't own, along with Bill, Laura, and BSG. (Sigh.)_

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><p><strong>But When That Day Is Coming, Who Can Say<strong>

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><p>Hours later, when he returned, she still hadn't made it up off the floor.<p>

He sealed the hatch behind him, and stood for a moment, watching her. It was dark inside her quarters, except for the dim light of a small desk lamp, which cast her into shadow as much as it illuminated her. She was curled into herself tightly, her knees almost tucked into her chest, her spine a ridged line of pain. Beside her, Bill could see the charred remains of what had been her sacred scrolls: the scrolls she'd poured over, prayed over, bled for—now reduced to blackened pages and melted ink.

_Pythia_, Bill thought bitterly. He didn't blame Laura for any of this. He blamed Pythia, and he blamed himself—and the order varied.

He eased himself down onto the floor next to Laura. She didn't move. He didn't try to touch her. It was funny; they'd spent so long not touching, maintaining a professional distance, but now, the impulse to reach out for her seemed to be hard-wired into him.

"I told you to go," she whispered. With her head turned away from him, he had to listen closely to make out the words.

"I did," he replied carefully. "I came back."

Laura was silent.

_He wasn't sure he could ever make it out of these quarters again._

_Lee's voice, excitement papering over concern: Are you ready to take us to Earth?_

_He didn't know. He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready._

_Then he heard her voice._

_You don't know what? What don't you know about, hmm?_

_Just having her back in these rooms made him stronger._

_Her hand on his arm, her warmth beside him, her reassuring smile—_

_Come on._

_He knew he could be the Admiral again._

She'd known exactly what to say, what to do. It had worked. He'd gotten up, gotten out of his bathrobe and back into his uniform, and walked straight out the door, Laura by his side.

Now here she was, unable to pull herself off the floor, and he couldn't seem to do a damn thing about it.

"Is it true?" she asked, finally.

"Is what true?" he asked, a little disingenuously. There were any number of things Laura could have heard in the clamor out in the halls: most of them were true, and none of them were good.

"Dee," Laura said quietly. "She's dead, isn't she."

It wasn't a question anymore.

"Yes," he said heavily.

Laura didn't ask what had happened. She must have heard that, too.

He watched her shoulders tremble, heard the small gasps escape her as she tried to rein in her sobs.

He'd never been permitted to see her cry before. He wondered if this lapse was a sign of trust…or merely a symptom of how very close to the edge she was now.

He wanted to reach out to her, wanted to hold her, wanted to bury his face in her lap and weep.

Instead, he gripped his hands together in his lap.

Eventually, her sobs died down, and then quieted. "How's Lee?" she asked, her voice rasping.

"He's taking it better than I am," Bill admitted.

Laura coughed into her hand. "It hasn't been our best day, has it?"

_Give me your sidearm._

_Frak you._

_Do it, do it—or I will._

He hoped Laura would never find out how right she was.

"No," he said grimly. "It hasn't."

She didn't ask.

A silence stretched between them, so long that Bill would have wondered if Laura had fallen asleep—except for the painful tension in her form.

"I heard your broadcast," she said at last. "Over the wireless."

Bill was relieved. Finally, now, Laura was going to come back to him. "I'm glad," he said carefully. "What did you think?"

There was a pause. "It's good that you're carrying on," she said finally. "I respect that."

An uneasy feeling slithered inside of him. "_We_," he corrected. "_We _are carrying on."

"No," Laura said quietly. "I don't think so. Not this time."

"We can't just lie down and quit," he insisted, as though barely a few hours ago he hadn't been prepared to do just that. "Those people need us."

Slowly, Laura shook her head. "They might need you," she said. "But they don't need me."

"They need their President, Laura," Bill pressed. "_I_ need—"

"I'm so tired, Bill," Laura whispered.

He nodded, swallowing everything else he wanted to say. She needed rest, that was all. She needed rest, and care, and time, and she'd pull herself together. She had to.

"Let me take you home," he said gently, the words both an offer and a plea.

The line of her body stiffened. "If you're talking about Colonial One—" she began.

"You know I'm not," he replied steadily.

There was a pause. "I don't think I can be there right now," she said softly.

There was no anger, no recrimination in her words; there was only tenderness, and more than a little regret.

That was when Bill knew that he'd truly lost.

"Let's get you to bed, then," he said. He held out his hand for hers. "It's been a long day."

Laura didn't move.

At last, he dropped his hand, and got to his feet, and made his way to the hatch.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he told her.

She didn't reply.

It was all right, Bill told himself, as he headed back to his quarters alone. She just needed a little time.

She'd be better tomorrow.


End file.
